Jim Moriarty is Dead
by Wayfaring Snowflake
Summary: Richard Brook is now residing in America. Of course he didn't die at the Hospital. That would be giving in! Ickle-Sherlockiekins would simply have to wait. Post-Reichenbach.


I sat there smirking at the television screen. I had been watching the world's first Consulting Detective take his fall over and over. That is what had occupied my last hour. The footage had been captured by a camera anchored on the dash of a policeman's car. It was beautiful, really. The way the man had crafted his own death. It showed how close to insanity even the brilliant Sherlock Holmes was! Of course he wasn't dead. Hell, neither am I. I didn't truly expect him to _kill _himself. This game isn't over.

Here I sit, though. If I were out of place around all of the idiots in London, I'm more so sitting in this run-down flat in America. I can't contact Moran. He thinks I'm dead. Quite dull, that man really is. Still, here I sit. I rewind the tape again and watch as the man calls his little lover-boy, John. I never quite understood why Sherlock had taken the man so far under his wing. For the same reason as I had Moran, though, I suppose. He was just a lonely, brilliant genius. The poor soul.

I haven't been out of the flat since I took this place. No way for me to. My picture is being broadcast all over the world right now. I'm a hero. I exposed the "great" Sherlock Holmes. The Reichenbach Hero, a fake. Everything lies. That was, of course, my specialty. Lying, that is. I chuckle to myself and pick up the phone, ordering a pizza.

American food is absolutely repulsive. It's greasier than any other shit in the world. It has a strange appeal, though, I suppose. You don't want to stop eating it. You just keep eating and eating...I suppose that's why all of America is fat. It's one of the fattest countries in the world – possibly _the _fattest. It's repulsive.

My mail is being forwarded to this address. This is actually the home of one of me – ahem – more _recent _victims, if you will. I glance to the back yard where the family is lying for right now. Pity, really. A family of three. I kept the dog around. I'm a bit lonely and he reminds me of Moran. Very loyal.

That's all Moran really is. A dog. He is my bitch. I own him, just like I owned Adler. Just like I own Britain. Just like I own the rest of the world. They belong to me, all of them. This world is mine and that will be known soon enough. Soon enough I will be put in my rightful place – at the top. Of course, I've been here forever looming behind the "Greatest Politicians of All Time." Situated behind the Queen in Buckingham Palace. Behind the President of the United States. They all know of me. They all know of the great power that I hold over each and every one of them. I have contacts in every office. Of course, I can't contact any of them right now. I'm sure none of them would say anything – I have plans set up in the event that something like that happens – but it isn't worth the risk. I'm sure Sherlock would feel the same.

The same. That's exactly what we are, he and I. Alive. Well. The same. We feel the same emotions – or lack thereof. We surround ourselves with the same types of people. People who compliment us. Who admire us. Who will care about us even when we won't care about them. I honestly don't give a damn what Moran does as long as it doesn't defy me. I'm sure Sherlock is – was – the same way with his little pet. Moran is there when I'm in need, and that's all that truly matters about him.

If you're wondering about who I am then you're really an idiot. I'm not James Moriarty. I'm not "gay Jim." None of those. I am Richard Brook. Actor. Highly experienced and trained in the dramatic arts, by only the finest teachers and college professors. I am a living lie. I am living a lie. My entire life is scripted, though the world thinks it was the other way around. The idiot world. They all think that Jim Moriarty was fake. That he was a manifestation of the crimes that Sherlock – that fool of a criminal – dreamed up. In all actuality, that was the truth. I am living a lie. My name is Richard Brook. I am thirty-five years old. I am an American, though I studied drama philosophy in England. That's where I met Sherlock Holmes, who talked me into working for him. Yes, that sounds right. Definitely more interesting that any "Jim Moriarty." Trust me.


End file.
